“She looks like a teenage boy,” Sam whispers.
Watching her move, I shake my head. No, she doesn’t look like a boy. She’s slim and gangly, but there is something beautifully female about the curve of her jaw, the shape of her small ears, and the length of her neck. She turns from the bar with a bottle of water and for a second, our eyes meet. Hers are a rich hazel and I swear they have flecks of gold. Her lips curve into a warm smile, but I keep my face impassive and lower my eyes back to my notebook.
Karen doesn’t miss a beat. “Why don’t you go talk to her?”
“I’m happy here.”
“You never talk to anyone,” she answers.
“That’s not true.” Rushing to defend myself, I hold up my hand, marking off a list on my fingers. “I talk to my sister. I talk to Sammie. I talk to people. I buy groceries, I order stuff. Sometimes I even have to go to the office supply store and buy, you know, office supplies. That involves a lot of conversation because they never have exactly what I need.”
Sam and Karen are laughing. “Forgive me,” Karen mocks. “I had no idea you had such a rich, full life!”
Chuckling, Sam takes another sip of her beer. “Such an exciting life,” she intones. “Going to the grocery store. Buying kitty litter. Someday, when you go on the Oprah show, you’ll regale them all with the fascinating tales of your life in the Caribbean.”
“Fuck off.” I’m laughing, but a little irritated. I’ve only been single for nine months, after all.
“Oh come on, Dana.” Sam’s laughing, too, though she can tell she’s hit a nerve. “You know I’m just messing with you. It took me six years to tell Josie that I’m in love with her.”
“And look how well that turned out,” Karen said, dryly.
I’m saved from answering by the approach of the new woman to our table. Sam smiles and Karen says hello, but her eyes are on me. I was right; her eyes are hazel and flecked with gold and lit with amusement and vitality. Her mouth is full and smiling. I keep my face impassive. There’s no point in encouraging anyone into thinking I’m a nice person.
“I’m Esmé,” she says, holding out a hand. I shake it briefly and nod. She shakes hands with both Sam and Karen before turning back to me.
“The men at the bar told me not to talk to you,” she grins.
“They’re probably right,” I return. Holding my pen, I look pointedly down at my notebook before looking back at her. She doesn’t take the hint.
“Do you mind if I join you?”
Sam moves over and pulls up another chair. “Please, sit down,” she says. Traitor. It’s bad enough I have to deal with Karen at my table. Now I have to make small talk with a stranger. I glare at my best buddy for a moment before begrudgingly inching my chair over to allow Esmé space at the small table. Now we’re crammed in and I have to move my notebook to my lap to keep it out of the small puddle of condensation from Sam’s beer and Karen’s vodka and whatever.
Esmé crosses her legs and takes a large sip of water. I try not to notice Sam noticing Esmé’s legs.
“Where are you from,” Karen asks.
“Chicago.”
“My kind of town,” Sam sings and the three of them laugh.
Grinning, Esmé sings along for a second. “Have you been to Chicago, Sam?”
“I have,” Sam responds. “I’ve been everywhere. But I’d happily go again if you want to show me the sights.”
“Chicago is an amazing place,” Esmé laughs.
“And I am an amazing woman,” Sam says. “We’re meant for each other.”
Sam is such a flirt; sometimes it drives me crazy. She says the most outrageous things sometimes and people just respond with laughter and joy. On the rare occasions when I try to flirt, women either look at me as if I am a psycho, or they laugh politely and change the subject. I don’t know if I’d call Sam smooth, it’s just that in comparison to me, she comes off like Barry White.
Karen interrupts. “So Esmé, did the guys at the bar tell you why you shouldn’t speak to Dana?”
Kicking Karen under the table, I glare at her. “Honestly, who gives a shit what they think?”
“I don’t,” Esmé answers. She pauses as the waitress comes around to bring refills and snacks. When the woman has moved on, she looks directly at me. “They said you’re crazy.”
“They’re right,” I say, at the same instant that Sam states, “They’re wrong.”
Karen and Esmé laugh.
Frowning, I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t care what anyone thinks about me.”